


The Things You Say

by ItsAlwaysBloodMagic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon Gay Relationship, Denial of Feelings, Fluff, Introspection, Light BDSM, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Smut, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 19:33:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 17,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12153363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsAlwaysBloodMagic/pseuds/ItsAlwaysBloodMagic
Summary: "He’s easy to be with. It surprises me. We flirt shamelessly. It feels harmless, all in good fun. Except it’s not, and we both know it. Our eyes tell a different story. We can’t keep them off each other."In which two hopeless romantics just don't know how to navigate all the feels.





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic. It started out as a single vignette, now it's 19 (short) chapters. Dorian and the Inquisitor are so in love, and such a mess. Enjoy the angst.
> 
> Chapter 8 is basically pure smut, so skip ahead or avoid based on your preference. The rest is a slowly unfolding, mostly canon compliant love story with minimal in - game dialogue.
> 
> I just couldn't get Dorian out of my head.

Sweet Maker, he’s beautiful.

It’s an absurd thing to be thinking about right now, surrounded by fade goo and demon guts, adrenaline surging through my body like it always does after closing a rift. The man in question is standing in the middle of the room and managing to look like he just arrived at a dinner party. In comparison, my companions and I look like we just finished killing a room full of demons, which is the rational way to look given the circumstances. I’ve been questioning him, apparently. I only know this because he is speaking in the cadence of someone answering a series of questions they’ve frankly heard a million times before. What we’re discussing is lost on me, because, well, he’s beautiful.

He stops talking with a flourish. The man can’t do magic without bowing at the end of every spell; I should know, I’ve been watching shamelessly. I attempt to make a clever quip at it, but what comes out is not at all what I intended. “Quit grandstanding” I say in my head – yes, very clever. “You look like you’re waiting for applause” is what my traitor of a mouth comes up with. Maker, why can’t I ever say what I think I’m going to say? I trail off and blush.

Somehow I’ve managed being clever, or at least I think so, because when he looks back at me there’s mirth in his eye. “What, there’s no applause?” he says, and winks.

I’m sure this is all relevant to the whole saving–the–world business. Unfortunately I’m having a hard time grasping how. Dorian of House Pavus, time magic, apprenticed to Alexius – dear Maker, he’s from Tevinter. A magister? That’s bound to go over well. (why do I think anything has to go over? It’s not like I’m inviting him to join the Inquisition). 

Then he is walking away, but not before casually throwing over his shoulder “I’ll be in touch”.

Sara giggles and punches me in the shoulder. I rub it absent mindedly. I do rather enjoy watching him leave.

*****

I’ve invited him to join the Inquisition. It’s bound to go over well. “There’s no one I’d rather be stranded in time with” I find myself declaring. He tilts his chin. He gets the idea but doesn’t let on in any way that would draw attention. Sara, on the other hand… I hear her blow a raspberry behind me. At least she’s not making kissy noises. “Ignore her” I hiss. But there’s the mirth again. Dorian’s eyes sparkle and catch mine. I don’t look away.


	2. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some ways of being are simpler than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little joyful moments in Haven.

He’s easy to be with. It surprises me. We flirt shamelessly. It feels harmless, all in good fun. Except it’s not, and we both know it. Our eyes tell a different story. We can’t keep them off each other. 

I catch him watching while Solas lectures me on the Fade. I make a face and Dorian snorts. Solas looks between us and makes his own face. Indignant would be a fitting word. “Inquisitor, if you will not take this seriously – “ I use my eyes to dare Dorian not to laugh. He laughs. Solas drones on. What a stubborn little elf. He’s taken my elbow and turned us so my back is to Dorian. I can feel Dorian’s eyes me for a while longer, and then he retreats.

*****

I watch him do magic. He twirls and dips, each spell a dance unto itself. By the end of it he is sweaty and panting, although somehow his hair has remained perfectly parted, his moustache perfectly waxed. I compare it to my own magic, Circle – trained. We were taught to draw strength from the Fade through stillness. Only my arms move when I cast. Dorian approaches magic like a full contact sport. I approach it like a symphony.

*****

It becomes a rhythm both familiar and nostalgic, although I will only recognize this later. We find ourselves together more often than not. I seek him out when I return to Haven. We wander the dungeons and I teach him to pick locks, a childhood diversion of mine. We find excuses to spend hours in each other’s company. Today I need to locate a logging stand. Why on earth? I don’t remember. As we walk, he sends sparks across the frozen lake. Tiny rivers are left where the ice has melted. He fills the crisp Haven air with idle conversation. I take his hand and squeeze it softly. He stills for a second, looks down, and then squeezes back. We stroll on, companionable, comfortable.

At night we find each other in the tavern. Our flirtation grows racier over drinks. It is not long until I’ve got him pulled into my lap, his arms slung casually over my shoulders. We did not choose a quiet corner and Dorian is showing off.

“The Herald of Andraste, drunk, in the arms of a Tevinter magister…. Tsk, tsk. What will people say?” he murmurs into my ear.

“You’re not… a magister…” I manage to get out. He’s nibbling now. I sigh.

“Yes, but I am, ah, exercising…” he squeezes. “undue influence…” 

We keep it innocent enough to be on display at a public place where people go to get drunk. The patrons enjoy their gossip. We have given them a good show. No scandal brought down upon our family names. How refreshing.


	3. Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is terrible at setting traps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really a setup for Chapter 4, with bonus Dorian trying to rough it in the woods.

The thing about Dorian is, he’s spoiled. 

It is evening in the Hinterlands and we are setting traps, or rather I am attempting to teach Dorian to set traps. The refugees are low on food. They suggested we hunt rams, but staying in one place and setting traps is so much damned easier than traipsing through the countryside zapping large, horned animals. I am attempting to explain this to Dorian while I teach him how to tie a snare.

“We could always traipse through the countryside and zap small, unhorned animals, if that is your – kaffas!” He curses. He’s somehow managed to cut himself on string.

I cover his hand with my own and let a thread of magic run through it. When I release him, there is a shiny area on the tip of his pointer finger, like a scar almost completely healed. He smiles bitterly. “Seriously, I don’t see why we spend our time tying dainty knots on deadly objects in hopes that a cute, unsuspecting nug wander into it. How many nugs does it take to feed the number of refugees in the Hinterlands, anyway? We’ll be doing this for years, at the rate we’re going. I suppose we will have to skin them with actual knives tomorrow too, won’t we?”

“Yes we will, and we are doing it because it relaxes me. Besides, knots are useful for so many things.” I say the last part suggestively, holding eye contact. I’m hoping to get a laugh out of the increasingly irritable Tevinter kneeling next to me. The more irritable he is the more impossible he is to live with. If I’m not careful I’ll be peeling grapes for him to eat when we return to Skyhold. Not that I mind that particular game.

I am rewarded with a wry smile and a raised eyebrow. “Do you really think I’d gotten this far without learning a knot or two? However would I get out of my top?” He gestures to his outfit, which is bound to his chest with a series of knots, one shoulder exposed. I often find myself staring at, my mind chewing over the puzzle of how exactly one would go about relieving Dorian of his clothing without getting his arm hopelessly tangled.

Before I can give it a try, he leans back on his haunches. He has been squatting in an attempt to keep his clothing free of grass stains. Apparently it’s not dawned on him just how much blood we’ve been baptized in today. Cutting down mages and Templars alike is an unfortunate side effect of life in the Hinterlands. “Where exactly does a circle – trained mage learn to set traps? And with such dainty knotwork.”

I shrug. “My magic developed late in life. I had only just passed my Harrowing when the Conclave happened. At that point leadership in the Ostwick circle was so fragmented that my noble birth made me as good a candidate as any to go and represent the mages there.” I shrug. That part of the story is unimportant, and I move on. “Before I left for the Circle, I was on track to inherit my family’s lands. I enjoyed hunting and was given free run of the woods.” I run a hand through my hair. I have never thought of the transfer of the family’s lands to my younger brother as any great loss. At the time there were so many other losses. “I suppose I am again, if my brother cannot produce an heir. If he follows in my footsteps that may prove challenging for him. He remains unmarried, so it is likely that he has.”

Perhaps my father did not repeat the conversation he had with me. Perhaps he wished to spare my brother the heartache.

Dorian can read something on my face. His demeanor softens. “A… sibling. I have heard it runs in families.”

In the Free Marches it is talked about openly and without shame. I know Dorian has suffered much in Tevinter, a punishment for what is seen as a crime, allowed if kept out of sight, not meant to be flaunted. Dorian is rather bad at keeping things out of sight.

Of course, being the heir to a noble family brings its own hardships. Openly taking a male lover compromises a family’s lineage. No woman wishes to marry a man who cannot love her. Dorian and I have that in common.

It is liberating for both of us to be so public in our affections.

Dorian can read minds, I’m sure of it. He takes my hand now, rubbing his still – healing fingers over my knuckles. The cut feels strange, smooth. “Have you… am I your first?” He seems to stumble over the words, is openly frustrated with this. It’s so unlike him that I blink at him in confusion. But then, there is no easy way to discuss this when you are brought up without the vocabulary. Another way to keep thing secret, then, in Tevinter. Dorian tells me there is no word in Tevene for what we are, people who seek out the company of the same sex. I study his face. Yes, there it is. The same bitterness that shows when speaking of his father. The real reason he came south. Not to join the Inquisition, but to flee a terrible fate.

I know humor to be a useful tool when faced with his bitterness. I laugh, but it is a forced thing. A gentle mocking. “Of course not. Do I appear so inexperienced?” His entire body relaxes. He knows what I’m doing, but Dorian is adept at responding to social cues. 

“Not at all. Quite the opposite, actually.” He traces a finger down the front of my chest. Before I can respond, the touch is gone. Teasing. “I am smelling a story, however. Because Varric isn’t here to tell it, I would like to hear it from you. If you are willing.”

I haven’t spoken of Eric in many years. Dorian has been so forthright with his pain, in all its immensity. Mine seems small in comparison. One jilted lover versus a lifetime of being told your very existence will bring shame upon your family. I tell myself there is no reason discuss it. The memory feels hard to access, even now, sitting in a field with a potential lover. How often we wandered the woods of my family’s estates under the auspices of hunting. Of course I would seek out the familiar. Dorian puts up with these outdoor ramblings for me, I know. He would prefer dinner parties and trips to Val Royeaux to itchy grass and mud stains. His experience of love is steeped in these things. Mine is steeped in hillsides and valleys, traps and hunting bows.

“There was one other.” I say this softly and then will myself to speak louder. “A distant cousin. Our families were close. We grew up together.” I take a deep breath and tell the story.


	4. A Love Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell tells a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is in the past tense, having taken place in the past. I hope the switch isn't too jarring for you.
> 
> It's also the bit that inspired me to sit down and write. I love me some backstory.
> 
> CW: This chapter describes a consensual relationship between Maxwell and a distant cousin when they were both teenagers.

It was a natural progression from childhood games to adolescent ones. We learned to hunt, and then to fuck. We learned the form of our desire from each other. I never called it love, not in that way. He was dear to me but I never saw it as separate from our friendship. It was a special, delicate, delicious thing. I thought it would last forever.

*****

I remember my father calling me into his study. I was fifteen years old and I had duties to attend to on behalf of our House. I knew it was coming and had prepared, taking into account the sorts of things I believed would be useful when considering betrothal. 

“Ah, a list of names. Quite practical of you.” My father eyed me for a moment. “Okay, let’s go over it.”

I ran down the list, highlighting the benefit of each family. This one was financially solvent, that one the owner of landholdings adjacent to our own. One daughter was almost guaranteed to produce an heir, while another had good business sense.

When I looked up, my father was studying me. A small smile played on his lips. “You are better at this than most your age. Many do not grasp the… strategic nature of these decisions.” He looked thoughtful for a minute. “What about the Laurien girl?” 

I froze, feeling panic rise in my throat. Sasha was Eric’s sister. My father was smiling. I looked at him, bewildered.

“Maxwell, you know there is no shame in what you two have” he said quietly, then.

I found myself able to speak again, my silence broken by my father’s gentleness. “But how did you know?”

He laughed a little. “You two should sit in on your brother’s Wicked Grace games. You need to practice your bluff.”

This drew a smile from me, albeit a weak one. Then I remembered the conversation at hand. “I don’t think it would… be prudent for me to court Sasha, father.”

His smile disappeared, back to business. He was a practical man. “Yes, I suppose we should avoid the scandal.”  
He sighed. “We have never spoken of this. I suppose you have heard it elsewhere, in different forms. If you had not, you would not be taking the care you are now.” I understood his meaning and let him know with a nod. 

He continued, launching into what was clearly a prepared speech. Not only did he know, he was planning to discuss the matter with me. I managed to hide my surprise. “Matters of the heart and matters of the home are two different things.” He looked… embarrassed. This was difficult for him. “Your mother and I, we are good friends. Fond of each other. We run an efficient household.” He paused. “We are not what you would call in love. It took me many years to learn that this did not matter.”

It was not merely surprise I was feeling. Which one of them…?

“Your mother has always kept a lover. She made this clear from the beginning. It was a reality I was prepared to accept. Many marriages are built on mutual admiration. As for myself, I have known many over the years. Your mother and I are happy together, in our own way.”

Like most teenage boys, I did not wish to know this much of my parents. I looked at him with incredulity. 

“Ah, but I have embarrassed you.” He chuckled. “I suppose those details are unimportant. What is important is this: Take love wherever you find it. As long as you produce an heir, and not a bastard, love need not originate from within your marriage. I will consider your input, if you will leave your… list with me.” I obliged. My father ruffled my hair and sent me on my way.

*****

We were making our way up a hillside. I had a basket in my hand, filled with meats and cheeses and bread and wine. A picnic. Romantic, although of course that bit escaped me. Eric was looking down. I remember that he was mostly silent on that walk, that he did not make eye contact. He had been careful not to share touch the last few days, even accidentally. At the time I ignored his witholding of affection. It’s easy to overlook signs of distance when you will not name a thing. 

We reached the top and laid a blanket down on the ground. I unpacked our lunch, took extra time to lay it out in a pleasing manner. He often did not notice or appreciate these gestures. It was just part of who he was. Nevertheless, it made me happy.

“Maxwell, I… we must speak of something.”

I looked up. I had never seen him look the way he looked in that moment. Deep sorrow overlapped with a hardness I did not recognize. “Eric? What is it?” I did not reach out for him. I was wary of whatever this was.

“I am to marry. I… am sorry.”

He met my eyes then. The hardness had taken over. I did not understand, and I said as much.

“We cannot continue our – what we have.” He gestured to the picnic, and then, oh – were those tears? 

I did reach out then. He allowed me to take his hands and squeeze them but did not offer any pressure or warmth in return. “It’s okay. Nothing has to be different. It is simply who we are together.”

The wind picked up, cool on my face. His expression changed. I could not name it. “Simply who we are together? Who, then, are we? You have never said it.”

I was confused, saddened that he would end a friendship we had built up from childhood. He meant the world to me, and there was no reason that would change in light of a betrothal… I tried to explain this to him. I’m afraid I fumbled badly. “Eric, I’ve been betrothed for two years now.”

I stared down at my hands, picking at my cuticles. They were always in a perpetual state of healing, the skin a soft, delicate pink. A bad habit.

“And you didn’t think to mention this before today?” he spat. Had I not been looking down I would have caught the emotion before it hit me in the face.

“I assumed you would know what was happening in your own blasted family.” I could always match anger with anger. Had I known the weight of those words, I wouldn’t have.

“So you didn’t bring it up… why? So you could keep fucking your cousin?” 

At this I looked up in alarm. We had never spoken so crassly of what we did together. It didn’t feel like that. It felt like… an extension of deep kinship. We were far enough removed that being family was not a necessary topic of discussion. 

Something was dawning on me. Then - “This is a relationship to you.”

“You don’t think I’m still just tagging along on my father’s visits out of a sense of boredom, do you? Seeking you out because hunting is better than sitting in the stupid drawing room? Finding excuses to visit for days on end, by myself? To sleep in your bed? For what? Because I enjoy passing time with a distant relative who also happens to be an excellent lay?” His face held exasperation, but it also held something else. “Maxwell, I’m in love with you. I have been for years.”

I stopped noticing the wind. The vista, rolling hills in autumn colors dotted with patches of forest, leaves not yet turning, drifted out of my consciousness. The definition of us became my singular focus. He had turned what I believed was happening on its head. Our friendship, kinship, was so strong, so special. But a relationship… love… that had never occurred to me. What damage had I done with my obliviousness?

And then a question, and an answer I would take back threefold if given the opportunity.

“Do you not feel the same?”

“Had I known… love… was a possibility…” the truth was there, in my voice, in the words as I spoke them, on my face. No. Maybe once I could have given myself permission, but this had become something else entirely.

I saw him break. He pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them, stared silently into the distance. 

“Eric, we don’t have to stop. Nothing has to change.” I was at my wit’s end, repeating myself, knowing that I desperately did not want to lose this, ignoring that it was already lost. 

He didn’t turn back to look at me, instead pretending fascination with a tuft of grass. The hunch of his shoulders told me all I needed to know. I ignored this too, babbling on about matters of the heart being separate from matters of the home, as though he was still simply - breaking up with me, that is what he was doing – telling me of the betrothal. As though I had not just broken his heart.

Finally he told me as much, softly, and with pity in his eyes. I must have looked lost, desperate. When he was finished speaking he kissed my tears and then my hands. We packed up our uneaten lunch, so carefully spread out, and walked silently back down the hill and through the woods to our families.

*****

“We didn’t see each other again after that. I wrote to him a couple of times. I was desperate to restore our friendship. The last was when I joined the Circle, to let him know. He’s never written back.”

Dorian maintains an air of detached interest. I wonder if he is protecting me or himself when he speaks. “Ah, a tragic tale of young love. Always good for damp spring evenings setting bloody traps with your-“ here he pauses, realizes he’s made a mistake. We also haven’t discussed what we are. 

Before I can respond to this thing that it is perhaps too soon to talk about, Dorian sweeps in with a save. Ah, yes. Dorian and his social graces. “I’m sorry, I do believe I’ve stepped in it. Thank you for sharing that with me. As a first experience, it sounds quite unpleasant. I promise you that matters of the flesh are rarely that depressing. Oh look, I’ve managed a knot.” He displays his successfully set-up trap. 

I praise it before raising an eyebrow and taking the out I have been offered. “Matters of the flesh? Must we use such phrases?” 

Dorian climbs into my lap and kisses me lustfully. I allow myself to be taken in, let him set the tone and sweep me along. Before long the sun is setting and it is time to walk back to camp. We do so, hand in hand, conversing softly. Varric looks up from the fire as we approach and invites us over with a wave. We join the group. I lean against Dorian’s shoulder and wonder at the sense of normalcy and belonging that has become so common as to be expected here.


	5. The Things I Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation is attempted. It goes poorly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lifted some dialogue from the game here and put it in a different context.

We are on the battlements overlooking Skyhold’s mountains. For Skyhold it is a warm evening, no biting breeze set upon finding the places your skin is exposed and reminding you of them. Dorian is standing behind, his arms around me. A vista and a comfortable silence, broken by an inept attempt at shining a light on, well, on us.

“After – after Eric” my mouth is dry, the words coming out all nerves and hope and dread at speaking the unspoken. “Dorian, after Eric –“ I dare not look at him. I keep my eyes trained on the mountain, then the stars, my back stubbornly adhered to his torso. “I, uh, swore… I swore that if love presented itself” – swallow – “I would recognize it for what it was. I would not – I would not let the opportunity pass me by.” The rest tumbles out, thank the Maker, through some force of sheer momentum. I grasp Dorian’s hand, an anchor, as my mind reels in panic, insists no, and you’ll ruin it, and it did not need to be spoken for it to be true. But I know firsthand exactly what you risk by not speaking of a thing. I will not allow it to happen again. 

The silence that follows is a queer thing. Because I will not shift to look up at Dorian, I have no cues as to what he may be thinking. His hands do not move. Neither do mine. Perhaps that is good.

He does become almost unnaturally still.

Then, nothing. More silence. After a while I feel him relax. In answer, I relax my hand, which has been clutching so hard that my knuckles now hurt. I feel his whisper against my ear. “The things you say.” He breathes it so softly it is nearly inaudible. I do not need to look at him then. I can see too clearly the expression on his face, it is one that I have seen before. It means he has softened. It also means he finds me a naive fool. A lovely, silly naive fool whose hope and trust is somehow contagious. I know this because I have studied his looks, savored them, stored them away to remember when he insists on putting on social airs to mask the truth of something. 

His arms envelop me more fully and he rests his chin on my shoulder. “You are dreadfully boring and I hate you” he says in the same wondering voice. These are words he uses lest he say something “too sappy for even Cassandra”. It is not the first time he’s said them. Apparently Dorian is a romantic at heart.

Tonight those words sting, though they are meant as a surrender, no matter how small. I mouth the words that often come next, meant to bite enough to remind us both he’s only got one toe in the water. “I hope this ends soon.”

Tonight I am the one that insists on returning to my quarters alone. I hope it stings. I am correct in my understanding that it will.


	6. Kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Maxwell figure something out, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I'm able to do the scene justice.

There’s been A Talk. Initiated by Dorian, of course. Maker forbid he be responsive to my need for clarity, instead seeking it only when he’s feeling insecure.

It is a week after the night on the battlements. From an outsider’s perspective that night had no ill effect on our arrangement. We’ve been carrying on as always, romantic companions but never lovers. After that night I slow down, clinging to that small admission of like feelings: the things you say. I tell myself that Dorian simply needs time to come to terms with what this is. I am wrong, of course. Naïve of me to assume we have the same understanding of what is happening.

Looking back, I cannot believe I was unable to see things as he saw them. He traded all social standing in Tevinter to join the Inquisition. He is broke, having spent all he made off the trade securing passage across the border. He has taken up with The Inquisitor, of all people, who insisted on taking him in, feeding him, clothing him, presumably in exchange for… what? Knowledge of the enemy? Ability in the field? Connection to Alexius? Knack for reading tome after tome, even when so drunk the words should be swimming on the page?

It does not help that I keep him out of the field as much as possible. I do this for fear of injury to his person. He places the emphasis on the word keep.

He will later explain to me the reason for his particular view of things. “In Minranthus, there are two boxes for men such as us. The first is labeled Fuck and Run. The second, Kept Boy.”

Dorian avoids sleeping with me for months in an attempt to escape the first box. The second seems inevitable, and in his mind I sealed our fate the day I promised a man certain political favors in exchange for a medallion with the Pavus crest on it. He does not wish to be beholdent, you see. But here we are.

When he comes to me I assume he finally trusts decorum will not insist he leave in the morning, and then leave in the morning, and then leave in the morning, until I grow tired of him and take a new lover.

When he says “I’m gotten” I assumed he means “I will not let love pass me by, should the opportunity present itself”. In actuality he means “you can keep me”, and “I will pay my due”. I decide to ignore the performative nature of his kisses, strokes, moans. Dorian spends three quarters of his life performing, making it easy to overlook. I choose, instead, to feel relief that this thing is finally being consummated. And pleasure. To feel pleasure is the easy choice.

And then afterwards, after hinting at the perceived nature of our arrangement, after getting angry and spitting bitter words at me – That may be what you’ve made this, but it is not at all what I want, I hate you for forcing my hand – he asks me exactly what are we doing? and I breathe a sigh of relief. 

Dorian can hide behind a mask for the rest of the world, but for me the façade breaks. Some force between us compels honesty, a fact that he is clearly uncomfortable with. 

I say “this is more”, because it is, and we enter into a truce of sorts. He will think on it. Which means I know, and I am terrified that you will leave me, one way or another. He initiates sex a second time. I am to “inquisit him again”. This has the desired effect: I cringe, he makes a joke, and we are back on solid ground. 

This time is different. The performance is gone. Our bodies push against one another, bicep against bicep, stomach against stomach, cock against cock. After almost a year of careful distance, the final barrier to intimacy finally dismantled, we cannot seem to get close enough to each other. Dorian whispers a word – Amatus – over and over again, as though to make up for the millions of times it has remained unsaid. I cannot control the word Beloved as it tumbles out between kisses, around his cock, through gasps. I understand its meaning to be the same.


	7. Silks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Skyhold is upgraded and Dorian is in charge of curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally some fluff! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and these guys are ridiculous together.

We are literally picking out curtains. Not venturing into mutual domesticity, by any means. A subject we can joke about now, albeit gently. No, Dorian just believes his tastes superior to mine. That horrid Free Marches pattern. You deserve a little finery in your life. You are The Inquisitor, after all. Nostalgia be damned, he will not spend another night looking at those curtains. He’s got half a mind to set them on fire.

Instead he’s dragged me to a shop in Val Royeaux, luring me here with promises of dainty finger foods and wine. We shall partake after I purchase new curtains. My lunch is being held hostage.

He is currently bathing in a bolt of fine silk fabric. It would be a social faux pas if it were anybody but Dorian. Instead the act manages to draw a sort of admiring attention from the shopkeeper. “Amatus, shall we have custom ones made? I can have robes to match. I’ll blend right in. A fine party trick.” I grin widely, imagining Dorian blending into the curtains. An unimaginable feat. 

“We?” I tease. “Are you moving in then?” I’ve learned to joke in this manner when he lets slip admissions of togetherness. It helps him to grow comfortable with the idea of us as a couple, subtly strengthens our bond.

“I was thinking of my own quarters, actually.” He sighs. “I suppose they should be different patterns. Or fabrics. Do you like this one?” He points out a display set of red velvet curtains, the fabric expensive to the eye. It will match the plush rugs and bedspread in my quarters. Blast it, he does have excellent taste.

“You don’t want matching? What’s wrong, does the color not suit me?” I hold the bolt of silk across my body so he can see the fabric against my skin.

He laughs. “I’m sure Skyhold would get a kick out of that. The Inquisitor and his favorite Tevinter toy, wearing identical robes. Perhaps we should outfit the whole party.”

Being with Dorian is like walking a minefield full of Tevinter shaped shrapnel. I believe my joking to be gentle enough, but this is him letting me know I have hit a nerve. Does this mean I am kept? I hope the next thing out of my mouth will set things right. Sometimes it does not and he sulks until I find the right thing to say, guessing until his eyes brighten. Sometimes he goes off to the tavern and comes back drunk, his sharp wit filed into particularly painful spikes. I stay on those nights, insist on putting him to bed and crawling in beside him, because I know he is trying to drive me off and I will not let him. He is always kind in the morning, offering overtures of apology in the form of sweet nothings and gentle touch.

“Dorian, we carried on like a married couple for months before you deigned to reveal you were not simply a precocious cat wandering the library. Skyhold will not blink when we show up in matching silks. Well, maybe Leiliana, although she probably already knows we are here and has opinions on the pattern.” It’s not a graceful save, but Dorian accepts it, coming over and pulling me in for a brief kiss. 

If the shopkeeper is annoyed by our saccharine debate over curtains, he hides it well. Not that we care. We have been subjecting everyone to our newfound puppy love. “It’s about time already. We’ve all been waiting for you to get it over with and stick it in” Sera declared one night upon seeing us enter the tavern, emerging from Dorian’s quarters to order food, hair mussed and cheeks red from exertion. Well, my hair anyway. Dorian’s somehow manages to always look perfect. I used to think it a spell, but now I know it to be a particularly tenacious brand of Tevinter pomade. For some reason Bull brought it in bulk when he joined the inquisition. Maybe it also serves as horn oil. I make a mental note to ask next time I see him.

“Fine then. Silks it is. We will have to get you a bedspread to match.” He thinks on it a moment, then proclaims, “Honestly, all of Skyhold needs new curtains.” He turns to negotiate the price with the shopkeeper, hand resting comfortably across my waist.

*****

When I ask after the pomade, Bull bellows with laughter. To be fair, Bull always bellows when he laughs. “You can’t use that stuff as horn oil. Too sticky. No, I knew the ‘Vint was running low. Thought it would be a nice peace offering.” Bull does not explain how he knew of “the ‘Vint” before either one of them joined the Inquisition. I suspect it has something to do with being Ben-Hassrath.


	8. In The Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys find themselves occupying an empty bedroom at the Winter Palace. Things heat up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is basically just smut, with Dorian's stuff all wrapped up in it. Light BDSM, voyeurism, orgasm denial, humiliation.
> 
> CW for humiliation.

Dorian looks fabulous in red. The rest of us resemble nutcracker replicas. The Inquisition’s matching formal wear is upstaging the scandal of an attempt on Emperess Celine’s life by a Venatori supporter bent on bringing chaos to Orlais who also happens to be her cousin.

The assassination attempt has been curbed, the culprit taken away, and the party has resumed. Dorian and I dance with each other and chat with various nobles. Currently he has me pinned against the wall, whispering things in my ear that make me flush and fidget. It is all purposefully public. Dorian has asked for this, and I am happy to oblige.

I put up with it for as long as I’m able before managing to get out “If we don’t find somewhere more private now, you are going to have to finish me off right here.”

Dorian makes a face. “How crass of you, Inquisitor. What will the nobles think?” Mercifully, his hand moves from where it is to find my own and he leads me away to a private wing filled with guest suites.

Being Dorian, he can’t simply get on with the thing. Instead he practically demands that I lift him so his legs are hooked around my waist. He makes out with me for what feels like an eternity while I attempt to support his full weight, standing in the middle of the room. There’s a mirror and he is watching us in it. “Dorian, your blighted vanity is going to kill my thigh muscles, and then what good will I be?”  
“Oh, you love it. Fine then, be a good lad and throw me on the bed.” I do as he says and then our clothes are off and I am between his legs with an order not to touch myself. My hand goes directly to my cock. I look up at Dorian with a big grin on my face. I’m feeling feisty.

“Fasta vaas, do you really want a lesson in following orders right now?” he cups my face in his hand, reminding me who is in charge. “Do as I say.”

I smirk and let my hands fall to my side. Fine. I will only do what he says. 

He catches on a moment later and signals his agreement of where this is going by giving me very exacting directions, correcting me for every mis-step.

He is on his stomach and I am holding him down (on his orders) when a man and two women walk in, all wearing masks. They are clearly in search of an occupied room, because I have been instructed to be as loud as possible and I am not disappointing. Dorian has me matched on this account. There is no way the trio believes this room to be empty. We pause long enough for a brief negotiation – watching is encouraged, no touching us or each other, you may pleasure yourself but no getting off – and we are back to it. Dorian nods at me, a silent agreement on which scene we will play out. We have discussed this back at Skyhold, gotten each other off describing the specifics of how it might play out. The scene requires and anonymous third party so we haven’t had the opportunity to enact it. Skyhold is crowded. Everybody is tripping over each other all the time. Dorian and I have entertained the idea of taking another lover in the past, but this element makes the discussion largely academic. Perhaps Bull. He would be discreet, if we wished.

The trio settles into a setee in the corner. I sit Dorian up so he is on his knees, halfway in my lap, facing them. My cock is wedged hot between his back and my stomach. I grind it against him and hold him so he can’t move unless I allow it. One hand rests palm open on his cock, trapping it in a similar position.

He’s hard already, straining against me, seeking some friction. “Look at you” I say loudly enough for them to hear. Just as he’s gotten some small amount of momentum going with whatever movement he can manage I release my hand. Nothing to rut against now, and he’s on full display. “What a slut. So desperate to be fucked.” I let the words sink in and roll my hips against his back. One of the women opens her legs, her hands resting against her cunt, explorative but not yet touching in earnest. The man frees himself and he is large. Dorian looks down, bites his lip, and holds the man’s gaze. I know the look of desire on his face even without seeing it. I play on it.

“You would have me let each of them take you in turn, wouldn’t you? You fucking whore. I could sell tickets. The women could strap on.” Dorian moans. Desperation creeps into his voice. “I bet you’d like that” I whisper.

The woman is openly fucking herself now, cunt glistening. Dorian has eyes only for the man, for obvious reasons. He is a redhead, fat around the middle, and he has the sleaziest goddamn look on his face. Dorian can’t get enough and neither can I. The man is stroking earnestly now. I look him directly in the face. “Slow yourself down if you have to.” The man does what I say. I hear Dorian make a disappointed noise. I ignore him.

I slowly work myself up, enjoying the power of the thing. When I’m ready – Dorian’s been ready for a while now, can hardly hold it together – I shove him down so his face is in the comforter. I mount him, sliding in. This is the part that Dorian asked for explicitly – to be fucked, claimed in front of strangers. I start out slow, continuing to berate him with the words he has chosen. What a filthy slut. You should be ashamed. You would fuck anybody, wouldn’t you? Give yourself to a fucking dog if it meant a chance to get off. When we’re finished you had better get the fuck out, find someone else that’ll have you. I don’t want to see your face for the rest of the night. I’ll find you if I want to fuck again. Probably not. I don’t like desperate sluts.

He moans in a way that means he’s going to come soon. The man and the first woman look like they’re on the edge too. The other woman is simply watching, her face impassive under her half – mask, hands folded in her lap. I wonder if this is part of their negotiations or if she is just indifferent. I guess the former – she has not looked away once. 

“He’s allowed to cum – you aren’t” I growl at them. Then I sit Dorian back up so and say softly, “Go ahead. Let them all see what you’re willing to do for attention.” He glances briefly in the mirror. I hold back a grin. Vanity, even in this moment. Luckily, he’s too absorbed to notice the break in character. He groans then, and lets go. There’s tears in his eyes. I toss him aside and tell him how dirty he is, covered in his own fluids. “You disgust me.” Then, to the threesome: “Get out. Go find some other room and finish yourselves off.” I’m impressed that they’ve kept it together this long. I wouldn’t have been able to.

The woman who simply sat for the entire thing gives me the most delicious look. I think for a moment that she might be an exception to my usual tastes. They leave quietly and I turn back to Dorian. He is smiling fully, clearly content. I kiss him softly. “You okay?” I ask, noting the tears.

“Oh, Amatus, what do you think?” he asks. It is a shaky, breathless thing. I recognize it – after-sex tears that come with a rush of adrenaline and laughter. He kisses me, hard. I call him a fucking pillow queen and the laughter comes, belated but there. “Fucking pillow queen?” he asks, all new tears in his eyes. He rolls over onto his back, slain, then looks at me. “Oh no, you didn’t mean that to be sexy, did you? I’ve gone and ruined it for you.” I’ve gone from almost spilling to half hard. I smile, my own giggles bubbling to the surface.

“Oh, I don’t know. I bet you could repair the damage if you tried.” I reach out, but before I can pin him, he’s flipped me so I’m on my stomach. He’s got one hand around front and is exploring the idea of fucking me with the other. I squirm against the second hand, encouraging him.

He obliges, but first he grabs a pillow and forces my face into it. “Who’s the fucking pillow queen now?” His voice is still full of mirth. I tell him to fuck off and he accomplishes something similar, hard and fast. It’s over quickly. I bite into the pillow when it happens, Dorian ordering me to “fucking shut up already, you fucking pillow queen.” Afterwards we giggle together. Then I hold him and tell him I love him. I tell him how hot he was, performing for strangers. I ask him to stay if he will, tell him he never needs to leave, that I want to see him in the morning, every morning. This is as much a part of the scene as the rest of it.

Of course we are still in a guest bedroom in Orlais, and there is a ball happening. So we get up and dress, prepare to return to the party. He looks down at the bed. “Perhaps we should invest in an Orlesian bed” he muses to himself. He does not stumble over the “we”, nor does he search my face for acceptance. I keep my hair mussed on purpose so the nobles will have something to gossip about, if they don’t already. Dorian’s hair will not muss to begin with.

He tells would – be suitors that his dance card is full. He gently rebuffs any more direct advances. I do not ask this of him. It is a promise he made to himself when he left Minrathous, and I respect it. I let him know this with a hand on his back, a kiss in front of strangers. We share dance after dance after dance. When the night is over we return to Skyhold and tumble into my – perhaps our - bed together, and sleep deeply.

He is still there in the morning.


	9. Empires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's moved in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the chapters where I pulled content directly from the Codex. Dorian is quoting from a book, so I feel it's appropriate.

“Listen to this: ‘The Imperium is little more than a dilapidated old slattern, crouching in the far north of Thedas, drunkenly cursing at passersby to recall her faded beauty.’” Dorian makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and an eye roll. “Your Chantry had better hope the Imperium doesn’t turn its eye south again, what with the nature of the propaganda you put out. I mean, ‘The Magocracy live in elegant stone towers, literally elevated above the stench of the slaves and peasants below. The outskirts of Minrathous are awash in a sea of refugees turned destitute by the never-ending war between the Imperium and the Qunari.’ Minranthous, filled with stench and peasants? Who would believe that? It will be your downfall.”

I look up from my own book. My legs are propped up on my desk. Dorian is settled in a chair to the right of me. A stack of books on the history of the Tevinter Empire threatens domination, crowding out much of the remaining desk space. “Frankly, every mage in the Circle. We were practically beaten over the head with tales of the Imperium’s weakness after they lost the South. Until you showed up – “

“Ah, yes. Every misconception ever harbored by a Southerner about evil Tevinter blood mages reveling in demon – summoning smashed by one strikingly handsome rebel Altus. I do leave an impression, don’t I?”

I smile weakly and set down your book. “I suppose we have the Qunari to thank for your countrymen’s lack of interest.” Dorian’s point rings true, I was raised to believe the Imperium small and poverty – stricken, a kind of intact ruin held together by a small group of inbred magisters squabbling amongst themselves for power. Inbred magisters aside, Dorian’s constant complaints about backwater Ferelden and smelly furs displays something else of the place. Minrathous, it seems, is a city to rival Val Royeaux, surpassing it in both size and elegance. It is the constant war over Seheron that keeps Tevinter from raising any formidable army and marching south. Well, until now. As much as the Venatori remain a small faction in the Magisterium, they pose a considerable threat. And they are acting on behalf of Tevinter, no matter how misguided their methods are. If they were to gain any sort of political foothold, well, I saw that future in Redcliffe. I prefer not to dwell on it.

“You know, the Southern Chant is used as a tool to slander my homeland. According to the Chantry, we corrupted the Black City, brought the Blight down upon Thaedas, caused the Maker to turn His back on His people, enslaved the ancient elves, even killed Andraste herself. It is your people who would take the first opportunity presented to wipe us off the map.” Dorian stands and crosses the room. He unceremoniously dumps the book on a pile of his robes, which is lining the back of the love seat, a testament to his morning routine. I’ve never seen a man go through an entire wardrobe before breakfast. It doesn’t help that Dorian lives out of a trunk, robes and leathers tucked in amongst tomes and pots of kohl and bottles of Tevinter mustache oil. He has a spell to keep the wrinkles out of his the more finnicky fabric, because, well, of course he does.

The truth is, Dorian is a bit of a slob. He had servants – slaves, i remind myself – to put his things away back at home. My own wardrobe is sparse, two to four pairs of each type of outfit, carefully organized by type and color: casual wear, finery, leathers, ceremonial armor. I favor a particular pair of red tanned leathers accented by white gloves and coat. It matches my ginger hair. I’m not devoid of my own brand of vanity.

I don’t mind Dorian’s clutter. The man doesn’t have much in the way of personal effects, and at least his piles are predictable – robes here, books over there. It’s been a little under two weeks since we made the decision to share quarters rather than continue to make the trudge back and forth across Skyhold. It was a practical as well as symbolic move. I know it’s important to Dorian – he has settled in, in his own way. An anxious energy I associate with Dorian disappeared shortly after his trunk arrived, plunked down unceremonially in the middle of the room by some servant still not thrilled with the Tevinter’s presence at Skyhold. Now if he would only unpack the blighted thing. A space has been cleared in one of the rooms off the south wall, a vanity and wardrobe installed. Dorian practically has a walk – in closet, but he can’t be bothered to clear his robes from the couch.

I choose to interpret the piles as Dorian’s moved in rather than a trunk is easier to pack in a hurry when it’s open and everything is within reach. I know it’s a bit of both. Not completely settled, then.

On a more positive note, we did invest in an Orlesian bed. It has straps built in. Dorian’s knotwork is becoming quite expert. I am a patient teacher.

Upon delivering the book to its newfound home among his finery, Dorian continues the conversation. He sits on top of the pile, perched carefully so as not to damage the book. Perhaps we will need a servant assigned to cleaning duties. I have never considered the luxury before, but I don’t want to deal with a Dorian that has ruined or lost a tome in his carelessness. Certainly it would not be the spoiled Altus’ fault.

I love him for his particular mix of finnicky and disorderly.

“I could bring real change to Tevinter. There is a small group, a handful of petty backstabbers I actually trust, believe it or not. Mae is involved, so you know they are more than just talk. She helped me get out, you know.”

“And what would you do?” I ask. It’s a favorite subject lately, one that I encourage. Dorian feels strongly about his homeland. He will come into his own someday and enacting reforms in Tevinter is an admirable place to direct his energies. He hasn’t arrived yet at the subject of moving back and I am not pushing him there. The place holds too much pain for him, his father’s intentions still a cold knife blade to the gut. I am protective as well. Dorian will not return home so long as it is unsafe for him. This may mean he never returns, but as long as the conversation remains theoretical we will not have to face that reality. It is a delicate balancing wire and I walk it carefully, nudging him toward leadership while protecting my own selfish interests.

I think about how Dorian and I are the same age and for all intents and purposes peers, yet I see him as “coming into his own”. Being named Inquisitor forced me into leadership. I would not have embraced it without the push. Dorian is different. He craves it. In the War Room, in the field, I embody the role of leader, but with those I hold close it breaks down and we are equals. I wonder if this is changing.

Dorian answers, speaking of political reform, an end to corruption, peace with the Qunari, freed slaves. His goals are not small. Many would say they are unrealistic. Here we are saving the world, however, and I am inclined to believe he can accomplish anything he sets out to.


	10. Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Maxwell introduce a third.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I went there. It's my story and I do what I want.
> 
> (That's actually exactly what I told myself when I decided to hook these three up.)

We decide to seduce Bull, although that isn’t exactly how it works out.

We discuss Cullen first. Cullen made known his disinclination to me early on, but Dorian’s persistence in flirting with everybody has wedged the door open. “Once you get past all the stammering and blushing, he’s all Southern charm and dry wit.” 

The Commander and I, however, have found a kind of comraderie and shared respect that comes from sharing a battlefield and knowing details of another person’s life without being friends in the traditional sense. I find I am not interested in altering our working relationship to include sex. So instead we pursue The Iron Bull, who, on a superficial level, is the precise opposite of our upstanding Commander.

It is only a slight surprise when Dorian and I ascend to our rooms to find Bull sitting on the edge of the bed.

“So,” he says, the huge grin on his face signaling the imminent arrival of a terrible pun, “You want to ride The Bull.”

I hear Dorian snort behind me. “How did you know?” I ask, still a little taken aback at just how much of the bed he takes up.

He taps his eye patch. “I’ve got eyes.”

A guffaw, then, from Dorian. “Well, technically…”

“Shut up, ‘vint”. Before I can blink, I find myself enjoying the spectacle of Dorian pinned to the wall, almost an entire foot above the ground, both wrists held by one giant Qunari hand.

I wasn’t aware Dorian could keep quiet for so long.

*****

The Iron Bull becomes a regular fixture in our lives. It sneaks up at us, starting with occasional invitations to share a night, scenes negotiated ahead of time, careful explorations of what exactly makes each of us moan, or scream, or bite our knuckles. Soon the three of us fit together perfectly. Dynamics are worked out in the bedroom, roles adopted that compliment our desires in the moment or our natural inclinations toward being in charge. We are thrilled to find that Bull is a switch. This awards us with what feels like infinite possibilities, Dorian telling us what to do to each other, Dorian bound beautifully to a chair with a gag in his mouth, Bull in a similar position while Dorian and I take turns sucking him off or ignoring him completely. Bull excels as a top but often craves the opposite. We are more than happy to oblige.

And then one day we find the rest of the Keep has been referring to us as a trio. “Maxwell and Dorian and Bull”. It feels strange at first, but it is the truth. When people need to find us they look first in my quarters, always knocking politely before entering. My advisors learned to do this the, ahem, hard way. Cullen is able to chuckle about it now, but it took him weeks before he could look at me without blushing.

These days, we are most likely to be found bent over paperwork, letters, and books. Bull has claimed the bed, while Dorian stretches out on the loveseat and I sit at my desk. We spend exhausted evenings and luxurious mornings cuddled together, Bull in the middle with Dorian cuddled up on a collarbone and me lying with my head in Bull’s lap.

Bull maintains his own quarters. It is silently agreed that my and Dorian’s rooms are exclusively ours, that our relationship maintains most of its original shape, that we have simply made a Bull – size space close to our hearts. 

Besides, the three of us don’t fit on my bed, and Dorian refuses to trade Orlesian gilding and silk for a Qunari size thing made out of driftwood. He will not, after all, be expected to entertain the idea of a canopy made of circus tents, or pie under the bed, or a perfectly good headboard ruined by an axe.

Bull is steady and dependable. He acts as a calming presence, a backbone to balance the histrionics Dorian and I engage in with so much abandon. I have no idea why he puts up with us, but he does. It is not long before we learn the meaning of the word kadan and discover that a dragon’s tooth can be split three ways.

It is a perfect diversion when faced with the end of the world.


	11. Wisps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell gets angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This actually happened to my character in - game. His personality underwent a major change. I love it when your OCs take on a life of their own.

Something changes, after Adamat.

I emerge from the Fade irritable. It’s not subtle. My first order of business is to exile the remaining Grey Wardens in a fit of rage. Oh, fearless leader, what have you done? It’s pleasant, the sarcasm and bitterness behind the question.

I used to apply logic and strategy when I made decisions. It’s helpful to have input. One should act on behalf of the Inquisition, of all of Thaedas, for the betterment of – 

Oh, blast it. Get out of here. I never want to see your faces again. Alistar, they are your charges. Make sure they understand I do not jest.

My advisors are quick to point out my hastiness. What will happen when another blight comes?

I can’t bring myself to care.

*****

It is no surprise, then, when I finally snap at Dorian.

It is freezing in Emperise du Leon. We’ve just come off a battle with three of those giant lyrium – fed abominations, the ones whose arms resemble cudgels. Behemoths. We are all high on adrenaline as the dust settles around us. Sometimes I wonder how it is that we do not all grow red lyrium out of our nostrils, sharp little nose hair monstrosities. Something flickers to my right. Before I can act, a barrier distinctly Dorian forms around me.

Something breaks. I dispel the barrier and send a pulse of spirit magic out for good measure. My companions stagger, fighting to stay upright. “For fuck’s sake Dorian, I’m not going to die by wisp any time soon!” My voice is an octave too high, I am more than a hair too loud, and I am making this all too public.

It’s really not fair. It is true that sharing space has imparted a new sense of calm on Dorian. He has the security of knowing he is not expected to leave before daybreak. Unfortunately, a nagging anxiety that I am going to leave him in a million different ways has surfaced in place of the old fear. This newest one, my death, really set in after I walked out of the Fade. We had a fight about that too, although I backed off telling him just exactly how silly he was being – he was right next to me through the whole thing – when I saw that his fear was not relegated to only his eyes. Odd that this would come up now, I remember thinking, rather than surfacing with Felix’s death or when I was thought buried with the rest of Haven.

I should have more empathy, but it’s hard, especially given my newfound lack of patience when faced with pretty much anything that may inconvenience me. 

Instead, I fix him with a look that is thoroughly unkind. A panic I am familiar with is etched across his face. It shifts to confusion, then to a deep hurt punctuated by tears. He turns and stalks away, his shoulders hunched, as much embarrassment as anything else. I try to find empathy and fail.

Bull goes after him but not before using his one good eye to make a point. Cole flits around me. “There’s only anger” he muses after a moment. His voice holds wonder, as though a person with such a simple emotional landscape is a mystery for the ages.

“Yes, Cole, it’s pretty straightforward” I snap. Cole disappears. No doubt he is off to see if my outburst has dug up any buried treasure in the complicated sea that is Dorian’s blighted past. I know where I would place my money, were I the betting type.


	12. Petulence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unhealthy relationship dynamics can be so cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for fighting in a relationship. No violence.

If nothing else, Dorian knows how to rise to the occasion. Our rows become a common sight in and around Skyhold. In the middle of a rather notorious one I throw one of his precious books, still stacked about my room like so many smelly socks, directly at his head. It stops midair in what is honestly an impressive display and then comes hurtling back toward me. Dorian is wearing a maddeningly beautiful sneer that I want to kiss right off his face. Instead I say something intentionally insulting. He lets out a mean little laugh. Before we know it, the row has travelled down the stairs, across Skyhold’s main hall, through Solas’ study (If you would mind playing out your excessive melodramas somewhere elsewhere, Inquisitor), and finally to the library (I will blasted prove it to you then, if you don’t believe me, now where is that book…) No proof of whatever point is trying to be made, and it’s over the railing (Inquisitor! If you would!) and across the ramparts to Cullen’s office.

The Commander is not in to settle the argument, so Dorian stalks toward the tavern. “Stop following me!” he calls over his shoulder. The height of maturity. Because we are made for each other, I follow him, berating him with exactly what Brother Genetivi was studying at that particular point in his journey. “I do know my history, as a matter of fact. The Southern Circles aren’t nearly as useless as your people make them out to be…”

Dorian makes his way down the tavern stairs and sits at the bar. I stand next to him, mostly just to be in his space. He glowers at me.

“Gentlemen” Cabot greets us, “What’ll it be?”

“He will not be joining me” Dorian says pointedly.

Cabot does what every fine bartender does in this situation and quietly takes our drink orders separately, careful to avoid revealing that we are, in fact, still sharing space.

After serving Dorian, Cabot turns to me. “Inquisitor?”

“What’s the current mood?” I ask. I definitely do not glance sideways at Dorian or acknowledge his presence.

Cabot looks from Dorian to me and back again. “Petulance” he says. His tone is entirely too dry.

“Very good” I say. I can take a hint. I leave the tavern the way I came in, up the stairs to the battlements. I lean on the ledge and breathe in, using Skyhold’s crisp air to cool myself and rein it in a little. After a few moments I feel a huge, familiar hand on my shoulder.

“Kadan”. Bull’s delivery makes it a command rather than a term of endearment. Quit it. Then, “You’re starting to piss people off.”

“Am I?” I try to convey icy indifference, but the edge is already gone. Bull has that effect. I’ve attempted to pick fights with him before, but he just deflects or tells me to knock it off. I don’t know how the man can carry so much calm in his giant form. It always cuts through my bullshit.

“Yeah. Pay attention to how people are responding to you. I’m not just talking about Dorian. I know you’re smart, so I won’t lecture you on what happens when a leader starts to pick fights with the upper end of the command chain. Except to say you’re gonna get shanked by our spymaster if you don’t cut it out soon.”

I sigh. “Thank you, Bull. I’m trying. It’s – something’s changed.” I am talking about the whole big mess of it all, Skyhold and the Inquisition and this goddamn messy relationship and the inside of my own head. I can feel the muscles in my shoulders all at once and they all hurt. I move them around, trying to massage it out.

He stands next to me, leaning to prop his own elbows up on the wall. “Aw, you’re doing fine. Demons shit everything up.” He knows, about Adamant. I’ve never had to tell him.

I smile. “I suppose I should go apologize. I am right, you know. About Brother Genetivi.”

“Right.” Bull drags out the middle of the word, communicating just exactly how much he doesn’t care. “Best to let that one drop, I’m thinking.” He pauses. “You two better fuck later. Otherwise this mess is gonna stick around.” His hands find themselves on my shoulders, fingers working out the knots under the skin. “And next time you want to blow off steam, come find me before you lose it at Cullen or Josephine or Dorian. We’ll figure something out.”

Dorian and I fuck later. We always do.


	13. Staying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corypheus is defeated. Dorian and Maxwell discuss what's next - sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end scene with Dorian never sat right with me. This is my attempt to explain what was going on underneath.

Corypheus is defeated, and I am laughing, and then crying, and Dorian’s face is a mirror of my own. “You’re not dead” he whispers in wonder. And with that, nearly a year of anxiety drains out of him. It’s fascinating, to see it happening. His posture changes, he loses lines in his face. All in the space of a few seconds. 

There is an embrace and then we kiss, and it seems to go on and on and I don’t want it to end. This, then, is what after feels like. It’s just me, and Dorian, and no certainty of death to cling to. A future that involves the two of us, together, no grieving and no broken hearts. The possibilities stretch before me and I kiss Dorian through them. I can see a thousand different paths and they all lead back to him.

*****

Later Dorian is drunk.

I know him well enough to know the reasons why, and I know him well enough to leave him to it, as much as that stings. I weave my way through the party, greeting everybody, accepting congratulations, telling my companions to slow down and enjoy themselves. The world is saved and we can have more than a moment of peace. This is not the time to think about after. This is after, and we don’t need to do anything except be in each other’s company.

It is as much a pep talk for myself as it is anything else.

Bull is drunk too, but it is an entirely different kind of drunk. Bull is jolly, all toasts to the Inquisitor and pats on the back and talk of how sexy the archdemon was. Bull grabs and kisses and announces what he will do to us both later, eliciting jeers from the Chargers. He winks with one big oafish eye at anybody who will let him. It is a relief, and I linger before moving on to Leliana and her fashion critiques.

Dorian drinks by himself and I let him until I can’t justify avoiding him any longer. Finally I approach, and then stop, and then will myself to move forward. I don’t know why there is suddenly a painful lump in my stomach, except I do know why, and it has everything to do with the shoe that has not dropped yet.

I don’t trust Dorian not to break my heart when he is like this.

He looks up then and raises his glass in a mock salute. What does come out of his mouth is not so much tirade as it is babble. I am pleasantly surprised when he talks about being treated as a hero, acceptance at Skyhold, and staying – staying – for a while, at least. “There is no you in Minranthous, he says, his voice slurring. I half want to hear him saying this to Bull, who will point out that there is, however, a U in Minranthous, and maybe he should find a different line, one that doesn’t involve a missed opportunity for a pun.

The other half of me is simultaneously confused and relieved, with a deep love bubbling to the surface, only made available at the illusion of safety he has given me, even if only for this moment. Dorian gets drunk to still his anxieties. I’ve learned to carefully study his moods and avoid him when he is like this. He can whittle his words into knives when the fear bubbles up. There are a thousand ways he believes I will leave him and it will be easier if he can make it his own fault. 

Tonight, though, he comes as close to asking me not to as he ever has. “Tell me I still have a place here” is what he says without speaking it. Begging with his eyes, even as confident words pour out of his mouth. “I have decided to stay” is a declaration, an announcement. An out is offered alongside it. “For now.”

The desperation is there, and I pull him close, my touches promising what my voice cannot. He could take it all back with one carefully chosen sentence, perhaps even a word. He does not, and I relax, if only a little.

*****

There was a time when Dorian spoke of leaving and it had nothing to do with me. Our wandering conversations about what he may be able to accomplish in Tevinter finally reached the obvious conclusion, that he must go home to make this happen. I was selfish, overprotective, unwilling to accept a future without him in it. Instead of sending him forth with my blessing I demanded he think of me, of what it would do to me. “Emotional blackmail” he called it. He disguised it as a joke but we both knew the truth of it. He stayed and I could not help but to think of him as caged. I believe he is happy, but he did not choose this cage and I am keeping him from greatness.

*****

Later, after the party, we hold each other, looking over Skyhold from one of the balconies in my quarters. He tells me he hates me and that he hopes this will end soon and I know it to mean the opposite, as it has a thousand times before. I lean against him and breathe in his scent, content to know that for the knowable future I will have him.  
When Bull comes to bed we are tucked against each other, sleeping peacefully.


	14. After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The years after Corypheus' defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short in - between chapter, but I think I did okay on it. I felt like these guys deserved some peace.

After has finally arrived. There are still demons to kill and rifts to close, but there is no giant hole in the sky and no ancient Darkspawn Magister cackling in the corner. My inner circle, or what’s left of them, lives in relative peace, free to pursue the entirely mundane goals of stabilizing the countryside and figuring out what it means to be the Inquisition in a time of peace. There are political tensions between Orlais and Ferelden, a disdain for Tevinter that’s grown stronger since Corypheus crawled out of the Black City, and a general indifference to pretty much all other nations in Thaedas. Cassandra fought with us for a while and has finally left to take up the mantle of Divine. Bull is in and out of Skyhold, taking new mercenary contracts with the Chargers and fighting with the Inquisition when he’s around. Blackwall straight up disappeared one day. I hardly noticed. Leliana laughed and said he had been gone a week by the time I went up to her rookery to ask after him. The other mystery: Solas disappeared the night of Corypheus’ defeat. I looked back up the mountain that night, expecting to catch his eye for a moment of triumph as we made our way down from the Temple of Sacred Ashes, a victory for the history books. There was no Solas to be had, and although Leliana’s people are looking for signs of him, there has been nothing notable as of yet. I can’t help but feel deceived, although I can’t put a finger on exactly why.

The other companions have mostly stuck around. Varric received a summons from the interim viscount of Kirkwall and is making ready to depart. Sera is staying, much more at ease now that “all that evil magicky shite has settled down”. Cole flits about the tavern as usual, unnerving the patrons with insightful tidbits, almost poems, extracted stream – of – consciousness from the darkest parts of their hearts. People can see him now, and they remember, and I can’t help but wonder if it would be better if they didn’t.

I have no idea why Vivienne is staying. I assume she is looking for a politically opportune time to make her departure. Josephine and Cullen stay on in their respective positions. The Inquisition can only maintain their political role, whatever it may be, with a small force and diplomatic overtures.

And Dorian. Now that the threat of imminent death is gone, Dorian and I have settled into something that resembles stability. Our dramatics persist, but they are tempered by a sense of security, the root of which is our relationship itself. We share rooms in Skyhold and tents in the field and we have more time to spend in each other’s company than ever before. We are back to the comfort felt during those days before we named the thing between us, and it is so much sweeter for the naming. 

It is utterly perfect and I do not doubt it will stay that way for as long as we wish it to.


	15. Leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other shoe drops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this chapter to look different, I really did. I imagined a giant fight and leaving in a huff. But then my characters went and betrayed me and this sweet, heartbreaking acceptance thing just kind of happened.
> 
> My partner moved away out of necessity a few months ago. Go figure that I would write this.

The first sign that something is amiss when I enter our quarters is that they are spotless.

The second is that Dorian is sitting in the middle of the room slowly folding a robe and adding it to a neatly stacked pile to his left. 

His trunk is open, revealing an even neater stack of his most prized books, a neater stack still of various clothing items, and a small box holding personal effects.

He doesn’t look up when I enter. I watch his hands curl around the robe. Within seconds it is hopelessly twisted around itself, the time put into folding it wasted.

I stand still. I am unable to move. My stomach resembles a five pound weight.

“Dorian” I say softly. My mind goes blank, refusing to process the scene in front of me. I try to calculate clean rooms plus careful folding plus trunk. The sum eludes me.

“Amatus” he says, just as softly. He resumes folding, eyes trained carefully on his task.

I cross the room to my desk. There are papers there that will do well for mindless shuffling. I try to collect myself while my hands roam over their corners. My eyes do not see what is written on them.

I don’t know at first what has clouded the ink and caused it to spread. Then I catch one single drop as it falls from my face onto the page. When I look up Dorian is watching. I can see his face change. For a moment he is studying my response to the scene in front of me. I blink twice to clear the tears and when I look again his whole posture has hardened. My memories betray me and for a moment I am sitting on a hillside, cool autumn air brushing against my skin, my heart not yet broken.

When Dorian finally speaks his words are clipped and formal.

“I am scheduled to depart for Minrathus tomorrow at first light. Josephine has made the arrangements. I will have a carriage and a small guard to accompany me, lest the Tevinter mage draw unwanted attention from the huddled masses.” The last bit is bitter. It is also a lie, meant to protect him from whatever doubts about leaving he harbors. Dorian’s role in the defeat of Corypheus has become legend, and a Tevinter traveling under the Inquisition’s banner is much more likely to draw praise and gifts than it is ire. Dorian knows this.

“You’re leaving me” I finally manage to get out. It cuts deeper than I ever imagined it would. I try to dig up anger, irritability, any emotion that will give me the upper hand, but only betrayal and grief rise to the surface.

Dorian makes up for my weakness with a quick flash of anger. “Your Inquisition is a weak political force at best, held together by tales of former glory. It’s shameful, really. I should have left a long time ago and saved my reputation.” His anger stokes something in me and we are back to where we were two years ago, after I emerged from the Fade and he feared me dying at any moment and my irritability almost cost me the respect of my advisors as well as my relationship. It’s a relief, really. It feels like solid ground.

I do not point out that two years is hardly enough time for tales of former glory to take hold. “And where do you intend to go? I hear Tevinter is not at all held together by such forces.”

His mask drops, then, and I see sincerity and something else written on his face. Ah. There is the burden of a responsibility long ignored. “The Imperium needs me” he says simply. His voice is strained. He is pleading. If you ask me to stay I will. Do not hold me here any longer. Two requests seemingly at odds with each other. They fit together perfectly.

I walk toward him, then, finally. I kneel by his side, taking the robe from his hand and folding it, stacking it on top of the others. “I know.” I hope he can’t hear the other voice, the one that is yelling loudly in my ear Don’t let him go, don’t let him go, don’t let him –

I can’t say anything else without giving myself away, so instead I lean against him and hold his hand. The side of my head is tucked in the crook of his neck, and we sit like that for a very long time. 

I feel his other hand travel to the dragon’s tooth, which rests over the center of his chest. He grasps it like it is keeping him upright. “I haven’t told Bull.” I hear a question, and guilt.

Bull is off with the Chargers and likely will not return for another three weeks. I imagine Dorian planned his departure accordingly. It does not surprise me, and although I know Bull would have preferred to see Dorian off, he will not feel the stab of betrayal or the ache of the thing the way I already do. A mercenary is able to travel more easily than the Inquisitor and he will likely see Dorian on occasion. His presence here has been intermittent at best since Corypheus’ defeat. This was expected, part of the promise of a dragon’s tooth split three ways. We will be together, even at distance. Dorian and I made no such promise to each other. An assumption of shared space and only short, necessary periods of separation bound us for many years. The assumption is broken now and it is not clear what this means.

I bring my mind back to the present, thoughts and questions I do not want answered swirling through it. “I will tell him” I say. It will not be an easy conversation, but it will be easier than this one, and Bull deserves to hear it in person rather than by raven.

We do not speak after that. No promises are made. I help Dorian finish packing and organizing, and after a while I leave him for meetings and trainings and the requisite rounds to see how everybody is holding up.

In the morning Dorian will leave and I will return to my duties as leader of a powerful political force. I do not know the future of the Inquisition, but for now we are central to the stability of southern Thaedas. I will not abandon the South and Dorian will not abandon his homeland. 

That night we alternate between fucking and holding each other. We do not sleep and we do not talk. Dorian’s body is desperate for sex and the need to do anything but think. My hands are desperate for his face, hair, neck. I want to memorize him in the dark and I touch every part of him I can reach. By morning there is quiet acceptance. We say goodbye with our defenses down, apologies and well wishes and declarations of love all jumbled together with tears. I hold on for perhaps too long, prolonging our last moments together. He does not protest, only runs fingers through my hair and along my chin. The morning light catches his cheekbone and I think to myself I will remember his face in that moment rather than his profile receding into the distance. He chooses to ride horseback alongside the carriage and I can’t help but think this is one last display for the sake of Skyhold. Dorian making his exit, riding into the sunrise, never to return.

I think of his parents and subterfuge and the political machinations of Tevinter and for the first time I do not worry.


	16. Love Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love reading fics in the form of letters.
> 
> This was a blast to write.
> 
> Some parts of Dorian's letters are pulled directly from Codex entries, but not very much.
> 
> Originally all the letters were written in italics, but I dropped that formatting when I published. Hopefully that's okay.

Amatus,

I have arrived in Minrathus no worse for wear, aside from the occasional bruise that is the expected result of being jostled along poorly maintained dirt roads. Would it be quaint for me to tell you that I miss you dearly? It’s true. I miss you almost as much as I miss stale Ferelden beer and cabbage soup.

Bull has been writing. He says sarcasm doesn’t read so well at a distance. So pay attention to the first part of that bit about missing you and ignore the last. He also says you haven’t been moping nearly as much as he was expecting. Please do try and do better. I refuse to mope alone.

I will write more when I get the chance. Much settling in to be done. Settling in, avoiding my family, and overall trying not to be assassinated. There’s only been one attempt so far.

Yours,

Dorian

*****

My love,

I’m afraid I’ve picked up some of Ferelden’s finer qualities. As a result, I do not find declarations of love to be quaint. I miss you dearly in turn. I miss your arms around me and the things you say and the way you look at me when you are overwhelmed. I miss you in the heat of battle and I miss the sounds you make when your mouth is wrapped around my cock. I miss kissing you, and the way you kiss me when you think I’m asleep. I miss sweet touches and even sweeter words. I miss your sarcasm and your wit and discussions about the most obscure bits of Tevinter history. I miss you dearly, every day.

Mostly I wrote that for whatever scout or spy takes it upon themselves to read our letters. I’m also giving a copy of it to Varric.

I’m almost through with the moping, so hopefully you’ve gotten your fair share in.

I know you will accomplish great things in Tevinter. Keep writing. I want to hear about them first hand.

Go in Andraste’s Light,

Maxwell Trevelyan, leader of the Inquisition

At the bottom, in a different script, someone has written:

Pffft. You couldn’t have written your lovey letters on something other than Josie’s fancy pants letterheads? Hi Dorian. You a fancy Magi-whatever now? We’ve got Jennies in Tevinter. I told ‘em yer one of the good ones, so prove it, right?

Below this:

Sorry about that. I love you.

*****

Amatus,

Send Sera my love, and ask her why on Earth there was a bowl of crickets on my breakfast tray this morning.

The Lucerni has developed quite the presence in Tevinter. We have even been allowed official recognition by the Magisterium. We are gaining support one dinner party at a time, with little need for subterfuge. Junior members of the Magisterium so filled with fire and zeal, and so wildly inept at politics, Mae keeps a bucket of ice water on hand in case one accidentally immolates himself. Fortunately, they do have me. Leliana would be proud. Or maybe not. I can never tell.

Perhaps someday we will be able to do something to officially ease tensions with the South. The Inquisition could help with that. If you have ideas, let me know, and I will work them into my next captivating dinner conversation.

I was able to see Bull recently. It was quite grand, actually. I was mercilessly kidnapped and manhandled by a band of mercenaries, led by a fearsome Qunari brute, right off of the Senate floor! There was much commotion and protest on behalf of my countrymen, although I am positive they were not bereft to see me go. I was held captive for a week before Mae organized a “rescue party”. No fewer than eight strapping young men showed up to parlay with my captives. Suffice it to say, the savage Qunari had his way with me all week. I fear he may have done permanent damage to my ego. The rope burns won’t fade anytime soon either.

I’m including a sketch of the escapade. I think you will appreciate it. Bull is quite the artist.

Perhaps you and I can arrange something similar. The Inquisition holds an Altus as collateral during negotiations with the Imperium? What do you think? Or you could simply come here and I could try valiantly to win your political favor. Minrathus is quite beautiful this time of year. I would even let you out of my quarters periodically to see it for yourself. 

Do write back. My days here are ever so tedious.

Yours,

Dorian

On a separate page is a drawing of a figure who is unmistakably Dorian, hog tied and naked, being carried overhead with what is an extremely accurate depiction of the Chargers. A giant horned Qunari appears to be supporting his ass one – handed. The Qunari is wearing a breastplate with a heart over the top. The heart has been shaded pink.

*****

My love,

As enticing as holding you as collateral is, I’m afraid it’s just not practical. Where, pray tell, would we hold you? We would hardly seem sincere in our efforts if you were to simply move back into my quarters.

In all seriousness, travel to Tevinter isn’t a possibility for the near future. There is much tension between Orlais and Ferelden, and without clear ties to any nation the Inquisition could easily begin to look like an invading power. Entering negotiations with any factions in Tevinter would lose us support on both sides. I will speak to Josephine about how we may gracefully welcome you in a diplomatic role. Perhaps that will allow you a visit. 

I believe I’m doing quite well at this leadership business, although I’m sure your brilliance outshines me. Now that there’s no action to be had, I spend my days in meetings and my evenings buried in paperwork. Thank the Maker for Josephine and her endless patience. Had I known being the leader of the Inquisition would be so boring after Corypheus fell, I would have kept him alive.

The drawing you sent me is quite something. I would hang it above my bed for… inspiration, if my rooms did not double as an office. As it is, I look at it quite often. I’m including one myself so you can fully appreciate just how much I’ve appreciated it. Send more!

Go in Andraste’s light,

Maxwell Trevelyan, leader of the Inquisition

Attached is a drawing of a person, presumably Maxwell, from chest to mid - thigh, fully naked. It is framed in such a way as to suggest he drew it himself, paper and pen held out in front of him while lying in bed. The muscles in his stomach and legs are on prominent display. His cock is fully hard, its size exaggerated, and one hand holds it in a tight grip. 

*****

Amatus, 

I showed the completely filthy picture you sent me to Bull, and he said, and I quote: “Aww, the boss never sends me dick pics!” I do believe his feelings are deeply hurt. You may wish to remedy that.

He also vehemently denies having any hand in its creation. I call bullshit. 

Yes, both of those puns are on purpose. Please come visit before the oaf’s influence ruins me of any taste I may have once had.

He is here and I am enjoying the spectacle of Tevinter’s best trying to politely hide their reaction to the fact that a Qunari beast walks the streets with his arm tucked through mine. They all believe my time in captivity gave me some sort of permanent syndrome. We kiss in public, sweet sloppy kisses, just to make a scene. Nobody dare say anything for fear he will gnash his terrible teeth and ram them through with his terrible horns. If my parents’ reputation was not yet tarnished by their son’s return to the Imperium and his adoption of barbaric Southern customs, it is now. It may be the best thing I could have done to make sure they never attempt to associate with me again.

I'm sorry to hear that politics are plaguing you as well. Must be something going around, like a pestilence or an Orlesian fashioned trend. Hopefully Josephine can defuse the Fereldan outcry and persuade the Orlesians to stop circling you with a collar and leash. You know she did always love a challenge.

I wish you would join us. The three of us, galivanting around Minranthous, dining in cafes and walking the waterfront. We could whisper all sorts of sappy things to each other in person, and we wouldn’t have to settle for dirty drawings to satisfy our more base cravings.

It’s time that you get a good start on manipulating the fate of entire nations for the sake of your relationship. If anybody could pull it off it would be you.

Please. I wish to see you, ideally as soon as possible.

Yours,  
Dorian


	17. A Toast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric is a master manipulator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate the Skype crystal, okay? And these two deserve to get married.

I am halfway across the courtyard at the Winter Palace before my intention reaches my logical mind. I am going to ask him to marry me, I am going to do it properly, there will be knees and declarations of love and, with luck, an audience. Dorian loves an audience. 

Never mind that the dwarf played a delightfully mean – spirited trick on Cassandra when he convinced her that we were already engaged. Never mind that the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind until exactly five minutes ago when I heard the word “marriage” tumble out of her mouth.

The rings will need to be commissioned retroactively.

Cassandra is a good friend, and this is a fabulous idea.

I see Dorian and my pace quickens, excitement bubbling over, with a healthy dose of nerves just under the surface. He has an audience – everybody is there – and they all have drinks, hands already raised in a toast. Perfect.

When I reach the merry little gathering, Varric is talking. I hear the words, but have a hard time taking them in. Confusion clouds out the thrill of an impending engagement for just a moment before I realize what’s happening. Then – anger? No, it is closer to despair. I don’t know what shows on my face, but when I look at Dorian I see guilt and heartache.

He has no right to be heartbroken. Yes, there it is. Definitely anger. Thank the Maker.

Varric points out the obvious (you didn’t tell him), then gathers the group of my closest blighted friends who didn’t bother to tell me the love of my life is leaving me, as though he could leave me twice, this moment in time proof that it is, in fact, possible.

Apologies, then, desperate for redemption. Fear, like the old fear that I will leave him – but he is leaving me. Again. I make this point twice to myself, then a third time, holding on to my anger like a buoy. His father dead, him a magister, tied to Minrathous for the foreseeable future. Josephine made him a Maker – damned ambassador so he would have an excuse to come back to Skyhold with me and stay for said foreseeable future, and now that future has been stolen, by none other than his father, from beyond the blighted grave. Oh, but it’s okay, because Dorian has procured a crystal. We can talk sometimes, can see faint outlines of each other’s shape. Brilliant. Problem solved.

I stay silent through Dorian’s guilt – ridden rambling. I work as hard as I can on body language, hoping my glare and rigid shoulders speak for themselves. When I can’t maintain any longer, I cut in. Dorian is mid – sentence and he stares at me in shock, first for my tone of voice and then for the words coming out of my mouth.  


“Dorian, do you even know why I am here?”

A blank look.

“To ask for your stupid, magnificent hand.” Then, to make it clear, because my mouth never knows when to shut up, “In marriage.”

It does not have the intended effect. Instead of making a point, driving Dorian’s guilt home – at least he got that emotion right, I hope he feels guilt for the rest of his life - it causes the man to smile. It’s a sweet, soft thing. Tears appear in his eyes, but they are not sad or hurt tears. Tears of joy, I might say, given different circumstances.

Then there are hands on my chest and his body is pressed close to mine, his cheek resting on my cheek, his mouth brushing my ear, a long and blissful sigh escaping his lips. He has no right. He melts into me, and my heart melts in turn. 

After a long moment of something unnamed passing between us, he kisses me. It is soft and accepting and grateful. His arms move down to encircle my waist and he leans back to look me in the face. “Amatus.” It is a prayer. “Do you mean it?”

“You tell me” I say, praying just as vehemently. I mean it to be bitter, but it comes out a question instead.

The familiar mirth, then, his eyes teasing. “I demand you ask me properly first. Then we shall see what I have to say.” I expect pleading or desperation but there is none. Only certainty, both in my intention and in his forthcoming answer.

I take a deep breath. My resolve is failing me, which is a good thing, considering it was dead set on remaining utterly furious. “I don’t have rings – spur of the moment thing, really. How romantic is that?”

He gives me a “get on with it” look, impatience performed and not actually felt.

I find myself down on one knee. All of the stereotypical bits are happening – butterflies, momentary speechlessness, certainty that I do, in fact, want to spend the rest of my life with this man. For a moment I wonder if we have any sort of an audience, but I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes away from Dorian’s, so there’s no way to know. The moment passes. Back to the task at hand.

“Dorian Pavus.” A breath, then: “Will you marry me?” Short, classic, to the point. Perfect. I pat myself on the back for not passing out or forgetting my lines.

He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. “Yes” he breathes, then louder, “Yes, a million times yes.” He kisses me, a passionate kiss that leaves me reeling.

Applause breaks out. We’ve drawn a crowd. When I look up I notice Varric first. He has a notebook out and he is scribbling furiously. It occurs to me that he may very well have orchestrated this. I have no complaints. 

Sera is whooping, her hand raised into a victory fist. I see Bull come up, his giant hulking form at the back of the crowd. His voice carries when he claps someone on the shoulder and declares proudly “Aww, those are my boys.” His chest is visibly swelling with pride. He winks, somehow manages to aim the wink at the entire crowd, then pins us with a look that says “We’ll celebrate later.” 

I laugh nervously. “You finally got your applause.”

“I’m not the only one grandstanding” he says in return. On his face is the most genuine, radiating smile I have ever seen.

He kisses me again.


	18. The Things We Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other stuff doesn't just go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't write fluff without angst. I'm sorry.

That is the storybook version. Dorian and I are not a storybook couple. 

I do not tell him I am dying, that the Mark is slowly working its way up my arm, that it is painful and that I am afraid of what will happen when it reaches my heart. I think about Felix and how broken Dorian was when he received word of the man’s death. He was prepared for that one. Felix had been sick for years.

I think about his father’s death and how flippant he is being about the whole thing. I would know if he was grieving. I have a suspicion that he is, that he won’t allow himself to admit it.

The last time he saw his father I encouraged him to walk out and never look back. Dorian took my advice to heart. There have been no letters, no follow – up attempts at reconciliation, no kidnappings. I suspect Leliana of assigning her scouts to the problem, although I never heard whispers of intercepted messages or successful assassinations, aside from the one that ultimately killed Magister Pavus. Not our hand. As far as I know Dorian has had no contact with his family since he returned to the Imperium. I don’t pretend to know what it feels like to lose a man that you hate, that put your life in danger, that burned the sacred trust that is supposed to exist between father and son. 

Dorian and I do not talk about death and we do not talk about the logistics of distance and marriage. We revel in the romanticism of it all, feel out the new label – fiancée – a promise, a status all of its own. Dorian feels out what it means to be publicly engaged to a man, to have it be accepted so readily. I do not know if he thinks about how he will have to hide it at home, wear his ring on a chain around his neck rather than on his hand, pretend to be single minded in his commitment to the eccentricity of remaining unmarried. We do not talk about Tevinter, his upcoming return, or the amount of time that might pass with only faint outlines of each other to remind ourselves that we exist.

Dorian and I do not talk. We never do. Instead we hold each other and revel in the comfort of standing by the side of somebody who knows every part of you, even the parts they will not admit to knowing.


	19. Here My World Is Saved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post - Trespasser

The Inquisition has been disbanded. I would be lying if I said it was a difficult decision.

I am through with politics.

My hand almost killed me. It was quite the scene, me lying on the stone floor in some ruin or other, Dorian cradling my head with tears in his eyes. Amatus, wake up, don’t you die on me – his worst fears made manifest. Cassandra standing over me, a worried crease in her brow, and then when I came to, a declaration. You have been keeping this from us.

When I tell the others it takes the form of my rage – my fucking hand is killing me and you people have no gratitude. Shock, then. I do not look at faces. I am done.

I do not die. The Mark is neutralized by an ancient Elven God that I once believed to be a friend, the arm later removed by skilled surgeons. Only the best in Val Royeaux. Words whispered: it looks quite dashing. Soft lips against mine. Softer hands exploring the stump. I believe him, because what else is there to do?

Thaedas once again facing mortal danger. The Veil. What will become of the world when spirits and demons and mortals walk the same roads? Nothing good.

So we pretend to dismantle the Inquisition, and we build up the bare bones in secret. Cullen trains troops, ex – Templars in recovery, once the worst of the withdrawals are over. We have the Divine herself on our side, should we ever need to call on support of the Chantry. Leliana believes she has a lead in Tevinter. I hold a secret flame of gratitude for this. She procures a small villa just over the border in Nevarra. It becomes my home. The Inquisition works out of a makeshift war room that doubles as a wine cellar, and Dorian is at my side.

A wonderful asset, that Dorian.

He doggedly pursues his political goals. If Dorian had his way the Magisterium would come crashing down overnight, power distributed among social classes and regardless of ability to perform magic. If Dorian had his way there would be no slavery in Tevinter. If Dorian had his way the war with the Qunari would end, their people seen as people rather than livestock. 

Dorian has allies, a strong political party, and moderate respect in the Magisterium. He has rooted out what remained of the Venatori, punishment more significant than a slap on the wrist. The Magisterium stands united against the cult, an accomplishment in itself. 

I have no doubt he will achieve the rest.

We are married at the villa. Bull is the best man and stays a few days after, showering us in affection. Josephine plans a beautiful reception and for once is able to relax and join the party. When we are finally alone Dorian and I spend upwards of a week tangled in each other’s arms, enjoying slow, languid sex, with no responsibilities to distract us.

He sells his father’s estate and purchases vast apartments in Minranthous. I spend as much time there as I do at the villa. We wear our rings in the open and hold hands while walking the docks. Dorian is already a pariah, his father is dead, and there is nobody to stop us. If it impacts his political career he will suffer the consequences. We fight about this exactly once. He puts his foot down. He will not be constrained by Tevinter’s backwards social norms any longer. He is not a child and he shall love whomever he wishes as openly as he wishes. I oblige him. Perhaps a youth somewhere will be spared a lifetime of dark corners and shameful secrets. One can only hope. 

We are together, and we are happy, and I will grow old with him. Here, then, my world is saved. The rest will sort itself out.


End file.
